


Less Than A Man

by aideyn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Loss of Limbs, Medical Trauma, Surgery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aideyn/pseuds/aideyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Genji Shimada is nearly killed by his own brother, Overwatch offers to help him reclaim his freedom. There were times when he felt like less than a man and more like a machine. The list of things he'd given up seemed too long sometimes. But he'd been given a choice, and for better or worse, he had made this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hospital Bed

Spots of light and color swam in front of his eyes as he slowly became aware of the fact that he was, somehow, still alive.

There was a moment before he was fully conscious where he might have thought he was dead. But any confusion or ignorance about whether he had shed his mortal coil were ripped away as sensation rushed over him. Pain. Icy hot and all encompassing. He couldn’t pinpoint a patch of skin on his body that didn’t feel like he was burning alive.

He wasn’t sure when he started screaming, but he didn’t think it had been for very long when suddenly there was a hand on his knee. It felt like a beacon in the dark waters he had been thrashing in. His knee didn’t hurt. Such a small spot. But when he focused on his knee and the hand on top of it, it helped him breathe.

He tried to lift up his right hand. While it felt lighter than usual, he nearly lost himself to the pain again. The person’s hand moved from his knee.

“Do not move. Your body is severely injured.” The voice was feminine, probably no older than him. And her accent... was atrocious. Japanese was clearly not her first language, but he could understand her.

“We were not sure. About your vocal chords.” The voice was gentle, despite his confusion about the thick accent. “Could you try saying something for me please?”

 He tried to speak normally, but his jaw ached. He opened his mouth as wide as he could comfortably and let out the word in a short breath, “Where?” It hurt to speak, but not as much as it had to move. His voice sounded throaty and dry in his ears.

“Lucerne, Switzerland.” Her voice on the other hand, sounded pleased. Was it because he was responsive? He tried to focus on the lack of pain in his left knee in order to collect his thoughts. Switzerland? That explained her accent. How had he gotten here? He had been in _Hanamura--_

Vivid memories of watching his blood drip down the exposed blade of his brother’s sword overwhelmed him. He _had_ been in Hanamura… He had no money or power without his family’s name… and yet it seemed he was in some sort of medical facility. He squeezed his eyes shut. It had been foolish, all those years, when he thought that he could have beaten his brother, if they had faced one another _for real._ Foolish and arrogant. When he opened his eyes he found he had trouble focusing them. There was a bandage in front of them, how had he not noticed before? Consumed by his own thoughts, he missed her quiet introduction.

He tried to speak normally again, only to have the pain in his jaw silence him. Frustrated, he knew he had to calm himself. He had so many questions, he needed to ask them all. But before he could finish composing himself, the woman above him spoke again.

“What is your name?”

He froze. Trapped and injured, surrounded by people who could kill him without a struggle if they found out he was part of a famous yakuza family was not how he had intended to go out. None of this was what he had planned.

The hand returned to his knee, and when she spoke, he wondered if she was capable of reading his thoughts. Or was he transparent in his current state? A mess of worries and pain stretched out before her that she could read like a map.

“We already know who you are. I just need to test your lucidity.” And along with this assurance, she changed her question. “Could you tell me how old you are?”

“T-twenty-seven.” He breathed.

“Very good,” She sounded pleased once more, but he could feel her hesitating to speak again. “Do you remember what happened to you? -- A simple yes or no will suffice.” She was harder to understand, her accent thickening as the speed of her speech increased. But he caught on to her meaning none the less.

The flash of a blue dragon spinning around his brother’s enhanced blade reared in his memory. So like his own blade. It should have killed him. If he had been any bit slower than he was, he knew it would have.

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you can tell us that will help with your recovery?” Her voice was gentle.

“No.”

There were so many things he needed to ask. It was impossible to put them _all_ in order from most to least important, so he forced out the first one that came to mind.

“Eyesight?”

The word didn’t force him to move his jaw to complete the sound, which was a blessing. He tried to think of other soft and rounded words he could say without moving his jaw. She was silent and he tried to be patient. But it was hard. He’d never been a patient man. Isn’t that how he had gotten into this mess in the first place?

“How are.” _My_ was hard to say, so he skipped it. “Eyes?” He could hear clearly still, which was good, but he needed to see. He needed to assess his situation and location, his injuries, his caregivers.

He tried not to shake with apprehension, but the longer it took for her to answer, the harder it was to contain.

“We’re not sure yet. Your injuries are very… unique.”

There was silence again as he tried to suppress the tears he felt forming. He couldn’t cry in front of this stranger. He wanted to retreat, to be in private as he tried to piece the story of his injuries together. While he lost his composure.

“Most people’s deaths look to be instantaneous… So your injuries are the first of their nature that we’ve encountered.”

He tried to picture what she was saying, to comprehend. _Hanzo._ His brother. Shimada… The dragon style of swordsmanship, that’s what she was referring to. The cybernetically altered blades. The depiction of a dragon of energy spiraling out of the hilt, piercing an enemy’s skin, even if the blade didn’t draw blood. With those blades, anything in it’s path would be cut away like fine silk.

Hazily he tried to grasp at the memories of being shown the weapon, of it’s features in combat… Of it’s effects on those it was wielded against. The specific memories slipped away from him like water ebbing away at low tide. He was sure he’d remember later, but all he was left with was the feeling of overwhelming dread.

Weapons dealing was part and parcel for the Shimada Clan, but they kept the best toys for themselves. He’d said so himself, so many many times. Even he hadn’t seen anyone survive his father or brother’s blades… Was this what they were capable of? Even against someone who survived an encounter against them? Paralysis? Blindness?

It should have killed him. If he had been slower to react, he knew it would have. But wasn’t this worse? To have the pretense of life? Without the freedom to move, to see, to speak freely. Tears threatened to overwhelm him again. Without those things, breathing was just a formality.

Maybe it wasn’t paralysis. He could still feel his legs after all. He confirmed this to himself by flexing his toes. And there was the sensation of light… maybe there was still hope.

He wished she would leave so he wouldn’t have to stay composed, but there were still so many questions. “Eyesight. Try.” It was easy to tell himself that he was being short and succinct because she was a foreigner with an unknown comprehension of Japanese. But he knew the truth was that he was too weak to speak through the pain.

The sensation of her hand on his knee disappeared and he heard her walking towards the door. Panicked, he tried to cry out for her to stop. She couldn’t leave yet, things were still too unclear. He groaned as he shifted, but before he could form more words, he heard her speaking with someone in the hallway. She sounded authoritative and older in a foreign tongue.

“Danke.”

With that, she closed the door and walked to the corner of the room. Hyper vigilant, he heard the soft snapping sound of some fixture turning on. A light perhaps? Something desk height. He tried to follow the click of her heels back to the door. Another, different click, and the sensation of overhead light through the filter of the bandage disappeared.

He heard her stifle a sound. A small sound of frustration or stress maybe? It didn’t instill him with confidence, but she spoke shortly after that.

“I am concerned about light sensitivity.” Her phrasing was blunt, but understandable. “I have made the room darker to ease the process.” There was another sound, this one definitely was frustration. Why was _she_ so frustrated he thought sourly. She wasn’t confined to this bed.

“I’m going to remove the bandages around your eyes now.”

He made a small noise of acknowledgement.

Gentle fingers removed something from either side of his temple, causing the twin layers of bandage over his eyes to slacken and then fall away. He squeezed his eyes tightly for a moment, dread still heavy in his stomach. But he couldn’t not know. He had to know, for better or worse.

The room was dark and blurry with a small source of light somewhere in the corner, like he’d thought. No matter how hard he blinked nothing would come into focus, his eyes wouldn’t adjust to the level of light in the room.

“Blurry.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” She held her hand in front of the source of light. The silhouette helped him recognize two slender fingers.

“Two.”

“And on this hand?” This one she held in front of her. With no light to help guide him, he couldn’t tell where her hand ended and her torso began. He didn’t answer, but a disgruntled noise escaped him.

He could tell she had lowered her hands due to the light haloing around her. It gave him hope, that perhaps his night vision was the only thing affected. A foolish hope more than likely, but it was what he had to cling to.

“Alright, I’m going to turn on the lights. I would like you to shut your eyes and allow them to acclimate before you open them.”

Another soft sound of acknowledgement. His eyes drifted closed. He waited a long minute before he tried opening them up. The light was overwhelming, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He heard her murmur something in her native tongue.

“The damage to your optic nerves looked severe. Please inform me when you are ready to test your eyesight.”

He bit his tongue. Her short manner with him wasn’t helping, and it was at odds with the gentle touch of the soft sponge she used to wipe at his eyes once he’d closed them again. After another minute to breathe, he let out a grunt.

She repeated the test from before. He could tell both times how many fingers she had held up. And although it was blurry, he was pretty sure she was smiling. He tried to focus on her face. He was positive she was smiling. She was a woman, she was blonde, she was probably around his age. He also thought that her eyes were blue, but fine detail was hard to focus on. Worry still gnawed at the pit of his stomach.

“This is good news! Please, follow the light with your eyes.” She stepped up to him, and after giving him a momentary grace period, she shined a small light in his eyes. It hurt, but he followed it despite the pain.

“Very good.”

He was getting frustrated with the shortness of her answers. He still had so many questions. Why wouldn’t she just explain what was happening. He hadn’t meant to vocalize his anger, but a deep noise welled up inside his chest.

He heard her small noise of frustration again. Pain and fear made him angry. What was her problem?

When the door opened, he couldn’t see who stepped through immediately, but the sound of distress his doctor had been letting out morphed into one of relief. It startled him. A short Japanese woman with dark black hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders stepped into his field of view.

After exchanging a hand clasp and having a brief conversation with his physician, the woman stepped up to his bedside.

“Hello Genji-san. My name is Kou Arakawa. I am an interpreter under the employment of Overwatch. Dr. Angela Zielger has requested my assistance with answering any questions you have. She has informed me that it is difficult for you to speak though, so she would like to recommend that you wait until she is finished explaining before you ask anything, to prevent repetition.”

The woman looked over her shoulder, back at the doctor. There was nothing blunt or brisk about her speech now. She spoke animatedly and at length with Arakawa.

Sudden clarity struck him as he compared her noise of frustration and sigh of relief. Her irritation had been with her inability to communicate with him freely. Again he wondered how he had ended up in Switzerland. Of all places…

Arakawa nodded, turning back to face him.

“But before we get into explanations or questions, she says that your sensitivity to light is a good sign because it means that your optic nerves aren’t damaged to the point where cybernetics can’t help you see again. A large amount of optic cybernetic surgeries are successful in returning eighty percent of a patient’s vision back, and it isn’t unusual for patients to recover one hundred percent of their sight.”

The sigh of relief that escaped him made him feel like he was deflating. There had been so much tension inside of him. There! There was good news. He would have laughed with relief, if that wouldn’t have hurt terribly.

He could tell Dr. Ziegler was still smiling. Apparently happy with his response. She spoke quickly to Arakawa again. Another nod, and again he felt her eyes focus on him.

“She’s happy to see you’re in such good spirits. There is also custom lenses that will help until the surgery can be arranged. She sent for a temporary pair when she sent for a courier to pick me up. They should arrive soon.”

Joy bubbled up in his throat. He’d see again. He’d see well again, sooner than the surgery.

“Walk? Move?”

Even though he couldn’t make out the finer details of their faces, there was no confusing the way that both their body’s contracted. As suddenly as it had been born, the joy died. His bleary eyes tried to focus on his body but the indistinct valleys and hills of the white sheets around his legs made it impossible to assess what had happened to them.

It was easier to focus once he got to his waist and up. He almost wished that it wasn’t. Dark brown eyes focused intensely on his right arm.

Elbow… Bicep… Shoulder. He dragged his gaze back down the length of it. Shoulder… Bicep… elbow… And then there was nothing but the crisp whiteness of the hospital sheets. Confused, he lifted his hand. It hurt. It burned, but he sat silent. Staring at the end of his wrapped arm.

His forearm and hand were not there.

Numbly, he turned his eyes to his other arm. His left was entirely covered with the sheet. He stared at it. Afraid to lift it up, to see what remained of his blade hand.

Suddenly there was motion, the blonde, Dr. Ziegler, his mind supplied, was next to him, gently peeling back the sheet to reveal a bandaged… but whole arm. His mind reeled. He’d lost his right hand.

Confused he murmured while he twitched the fingers on his left arm. “It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Why still?”

Arakawa looked confused as she repeated what he said to Ziegler. But the Swiss doctor spoke quickly and quietly, maintaining eye contact with him as she explained something to the confused translator.

Kou cleared her throat. “If you are talking about your right hand, she says that phantom pain is extremely common for people in your position.”

The trio was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. When Ziegler returned, she had a pair of thick framed glasses in her hands. Gently she lifted them and set them on his face. He blinked a few times before his eyes focused properly.

She had been correct. He could see better now. Not one hundred percent. But he could make out the details of their faces now. Ziegler was his age. Arakawa was perhaps older. But they couldn’t hold his attention for long before he went back to staring at his arms. Running down them over and over again. As if maybe a forearm and hand would magically appear to match.

His gaze drifted to his lower body now that he could focus on the rise and fall of the sheets below him. He stared at the hills and valleys of the sheets and at the foot of the bed in silence for long minutes. Neither the translator or doctor said anything.

“They’re gone. Aren’t they.” It sounded like a question, but he knew. The sheets were too flat. Far too flat for even a false sense of hope to fit beneath them.

The doctor nodded solemnly.

He felt numb as he closed his eyes. So numb. How could a person hurt so much when they were this numb. He could tell he was shaking. He wanted to stop. But the pain and the shock were too much. It was **all** _too much_.

The gentle hands of the physician rearranged him on the bed. She spoke directly to him this time, not the translator. It sounded reassuring and kind no matter the language it was spoken in.

“She says that she can start easing you into stronger pain medications now that you’ve regained consciousness. There was concern that you might be comatose.” Arakawa said softly from the opposite side of the bed.

“She insists that you rest now, and that she can explain the situation and your options for treatment after you’ve rested and the pain medicines make it easier for you to talk.”

Ziegler spoke directly to him again, this time in her clumsy Japanese.

“It’s safe here, we will keep you safe here. And answer your questions soon.”

 It was hard to care about that. There was a slight pressure on his side as one of the tubes that stuck into his left bicep moved slightly. His dark brown eyes focused on the liquid that Dr. Ziegler shot into the tube.

Options. Safety. Medication. It all seemed hazy and inconsequential. His whole life, he had rebelled against the restrictions of his family. He had feared being shuttered in a cage. Shackled by the expectations of his family. Of a position he’d only ever inherit rather and never earn.

He thought that he had understood the way a caged bird felt growing up. Between the lessons, the meetings, events and dealings. He’d been carted around, babysat, over-guarded, spied on. There had been expectations and tests. It had all seemed so permanent and inescapable at the time. He’d been wrong. So so wrong.

No cage had been locked tighter than this hospital. No shackles had felt as heavy as the ones that chained him to this bed.

He felt Dr. Ziegler remove the glasses from his face and heard them being gently sat down on the table next to him. Sleep claimed him as he listened to the incomprehensible murmur of the doctor and translator talking to each other in German.

 


	2. Situational Awareness

When he woke up, it didn’t take him long to get his bearings. The white hospital lights and stark featureless walls didn’t leave much room for confusion. The room was sleek and modern in a way that denied it personality or character, especially to his hazy vision. The overwhelming whiteness felt like an omen of death rather than a promise of a clean environment.

The strange heaviness of his body was preferable to the immobilizing pain though. He wondered idly if it was because of the pain medication. He tried moving his mouth. There was a strange tingling to his flesh, but it didn’t hurt. Good... Quietly he formed the words that had given him trouble the day before.

“You should be careful.”

He would have jumped, if he had been capable of such a motion, when the doctor’s voice floated out of the corner of the room.

“You can’t feel it, but it’s still injured, and undue stress on it will hurt when the numbness wears off.” Back was the blunt and to the point speech, brought on by their lack of fluency in each other’s language. She was dressed in a white coat, which was probably why he hadn’t noticed her before. She really had all the presence of a ghost in this room, with her pale hair, skin and clothing.

Resentment bubbled inside him. So this wasn’t even a good sign. Just a temporary freedom he’d pay for later. She didn’t seem to notice his frustration, or maybe she did. It was hard to tell without the glasses. Regardless, she had begun speaking again.

“I thought it would make it easier, to discuss your options.”

He had the impression from her voice that she was moving closer to him, and when he felt the weight of the glasses on the sides of his face, he understood why. Eyes mostly in focus now, he looked at the doctor. She seemed at a loss for words. After yesterday, it soothed him in a small way that he could at least understand this expression of hers now.

“Translator?”

“Arakawa-san will not be joining us. I am proficient enough in Japanese to not be considered a priority for her limited schedule in the organization.” Clearly this frustrated the doctor, but she had drawn up a stool and settled herself before her patient, hands folded neatly in her lap. “So I apologize for any confusion, but let me try to catch you up.”

“You are in Lucerne, Switzerland. This is Overwatch’s Headquarters. Have you heard of Overwatch?” She waited till he let out a soft affirmative before continuing. “You were discovered by a few operatives who had been tasked with keeping an eye on the dealings of the Shimada Clan.” He was thankful for the glasses, it made the calculating look she was giving him easy to recognize. Unhappy with the idea of being psychoanalyzed about his family, Genji closed his eyes. She only waited for a moment more before she continued to speak.

“It was assumed that because you were attacked by them, you had decided to leave the organization, and might prove to be a… asset. Let me assure you that the moment you were brought here and brought to my attention, it--” She struggled for words. “It means you will be cared for, to the full extent of our capabilities. No matter what you decide.”

He had opened his eyes to assess her expression. She looked genuine, but he wouldn’t bet on her having the sort of power to carry through with her promises, no matter how sincerely she believed in them. Overwatch would want something from him. So the question would be _what_ they wanted…

She was nothing if not obliging as she continued her explanation.

“They would like information on what is trafficked and where it goes. Business related details of that nature. Two of the shipments in the past month have been linked to mass shootings…” The doctor’s voice fell. He focused his gaze back on her, she looked pained at whatever image her mind had conjured up of the two shootings. Or maybe she had seen the damage first hand. She closed her eyes, and he couldn’t tell anymore.

“-- They wish to minimize future events like that, and if you were able to help them, we would be incredibly thankful.”

The prone man eyed her, curious at this slip. Up until this moment she had referred to Overwatch as if she were an outsider. Was it just the fault of the language barrier, or had she revealed she was more closely associated than she had let on before?

“But that is merely your circumstances, it's more important to discuss your options while you have better use of your jaw to ask for clarification.” Her blue eyes locked with his brown ones. They both were silent for a moment, and then she cleared her throat, and the moment was gone.

“You lost both of your legs below the knees, as well as your right arm up to your elbow. The damage done to your skin there is similar to the damage done to your… face. And we have concluded that whatever it was that did that is the reason your optical nerves were slightly damaged.”

He was silent as he listened. It wasn’t as though he could do anything about it _now_ anyways. _Only a Shimada can control the dragons_. His father’s voice rung in his mind. He was lucky to be as alive as he was. Even if he wasn’t as alive as he’d like to be. Though maybe lucky was an ill-fitting word.

“We’re not sure, about how much range of motion you’ll regain in your left arm. There were deep gashes in addition to the skin that was affected by the energy weapon. We’re also concerned about oxygen intake, since your throat has been effected in the same manner as the rest of your exposed skin and required a stent to be opened up enough for you to breathe. Everything else looks to be superficial issues that we can solve with minimally invasive surgery.”

She paused again. To give him a chance for questions or to let everything soak in, he wasn’t sure. But when she spoke again, the animated way in which she moved her arms to gesticulate were completely at odds with her polite and formal Japanese.

“So, our first step will be implementing a more permanent solution for your throat, before repairing your eyesight, and finally working on physical rehabilitation for your left arm. After which, there are several options for you as a private citizen to take advantage of cybernetically augmented prosthesis.”

She continued to speak as the jargon of it all started to overwhelm him. Private citizen huh? So they’d help him breathe, see, talk and move his arm. That was the value of his ‘help’. Concerned with his own thoughts, he didn’t realize that Dr. Ziegler had moved until she was already all the way across the room again.

The doctor had walked over to the counter and retrieved a folder before she came back to his bedside. There was a soft rustling of paper, and a sheet showing sketches for limb replacements was set down on his lap. She began pointing out the differences in them, each version with it’s own list of pros and cons. They began to blur together as he stared.

Her voice petered out, drawing him back into the present. “As you can see, there are several options and you can pick whichever works best for you. And…” She hesitated. He looked up, brown eyes hard as they bore into her blue ones. This, at least, wasn’t a pause brought on by a lack of fluency. No, it looked like she didn’t want to continue. He waited, eyes still locked on her.

“Well... before you make your decision, someone would like to talk to you. But, please remember, no matter if you choose to help or not, I will see to it that the treatment of your choice is completed to satisfaction. I will not allow medical procedures to be used at a bartering table, or to be held over a patient’s head.” Her voice was cold and authoritative for that last assurance. He wondered if maybe she _did_ have the power to enforce such a claim. She certainly believed she did.

Before he could open his mouth or work out a question in his mind, she had leaned over his bed to press his call button. Before the noise had stopped going off, a tall, older blonde man had stepped inside.

Seconds later, Kou Arakawa also stepped inside. He glanced at Dr. Ziegler, in time to see her mouth twitch with… was that disapproval? The pair of women spoke briefly in German, and despite the language barrier, Genji knew the sound of an awkward apology from their expressions and body language.

His doctor turned to him, motioning to the blonde man. “Genji, this is Strike Commander Morrison. I’ll return later to go over your decisions and draw up plans for your physical rehabilitation.“ She strode towards the door, but upon reaching it, she hesitated again, before the blonde man shot her a meaningful look and she departed. But not before Genji saw the scowl that lingered on her lips.

It made him uneasy. The doctor had all the seeming and manner of someone who cared, genuinely. Whether it was wise to or not. The man who stood before him, this Commander Morrison, looked like someone who did what was best for his people. Of which, Genji was clearly not one.

He spoke in English to Arakawa, and Genji could understand most of what was said between them, though he feigned ignorance, though it was hard to… This was a… bold opening, to say the least.

  
“Strike Commander Morrison would like to offer you a place in Overwatch’s ranks.”

 

* * *

 

She had been against this, from the start. She had known from the moment she saw his file that Morrison had plans for him. It wasn’t unusual not to see eye-to-eye with the Strike Commander about his efforts, but this felt like a new low. But Morrison, Morrison had kept talking and needling, wearing her down before her patient had even woken up for the first time.

“We’re going to help him either way Mercy, you know that.” He’d assured.

“I just want to give him a chance to help us if he’s so inclined.” He’d insisted.

“You don’t understand us combat-types, Angela. He’ll want to prove himself, to grow strong again.” He’d argued.

Now, standing on the other side of the door. She hoped that all this scheming of his would fall flat. Did she want the boy-- _man_ , her mind corrected, to help them? Of course. She had been one of the first responders on the scene after the first shooting, and she'd been present at the site of the second shooting when the bullets had started screaming through the air. There had been so many casualties. So many innocent bystanders... She shook herself violently. Orphans had been made that day. Little boys and girls who'd grow up without their parents, just like she had done. And if this Genji could stop that by making sure Overwatch agents could get their hands on the arms and the perpetrators before tragedy struck? She wanted that, more than anything.

But it was hard to see any good coming from weaponizing a man who could easily be driven by revenge. He'd lost so much and been raised by a violent crime family. She'd seen men lose less who had turned to violence and rage. But Morrison had seemed to think it was a done deal, like he'd be offering more than could be turned down.

The woman rubbed her tired eyes with one delicate hand, stepping away from the door. She felt dirty, like she was compromising her morals. Even though she had informed Morrison that she’d be focusing on a fully functional body. Not a living weapon. He’d nodded and started making arrangements for her to talk at length with the weapons specialists and cybernetic engineers. So they could work around her schedule and outline. 

But really, how much did it matter that she wasn’t the one to pull the trigger, if she was standing shoulder to shoulder with the firing squad.


	3. Hairline Fractures

The anger that had bubbled up inside of her had been waiting to boil over all day. But it had been worth it to hold it inside till this moment. Well worth it to not feel guilty over not keeping it in check around innocent parties. It helped feed her righteous fury to know, _this_ was deserved. She slipped through the door quietly, and while he had to know she was here, his senses were sharp despite all his desk riding, he did not look up.

Her petite hands brought her carefully compiled folder of notes and sketches down on his desk with a loud crack.

"My design was _altered_.”

“What?”

“My design was **_altered_** Morrison, altered.”

The sound of him shuffling her papers on his desk seemed as loud as a gavel falling repeatedly on a judge’s podium. A confession of guilt.

“Mercy, you see--”

“Don’t _Mercy_ me right now Morrison.”

“Angela, he’s going to be in combat, some of the other specialists thought it’d be more humane, and less risky for him if excess circuitry like that wasn’t included in the-.”

Her face felt hot and she tried not to yell, or maybe she didn’t try as hard as she could have. Either way, she was yelling now.

“ _Excess circuitry_ ? **Excess** circuitry?”

She focused her eyes on him, and he had the decency to at least look away. Was it too much to hope he was ashamed?

“Sensory enhancers are _standard_ circuitry for prosthesis. It helps patients acclimatize to their new limbs in a way that is healthy for them mentally, physically and mechanically.”

He wouldn’t look at her, even as he coughed and continued to speak. It was a feeble attempt at this charade of level-headedness.

“Angela, he’ll be on the front lines, I agreed it would be wiser for him not to have those included in order to help him during combat situations.”

He knew he was wrong. They had argued before, and he had never had a problem meeting her gaze and telling her to step down and take his direction when he believed what he was saying was right.

“Just because your government treated you and Reyes like weapons first instead of people, does not excuse you to do the same to this poor boy.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, though that comment did earn the paper he was looking at a frown.

“He’s a man Angela. One who made his own decision. If you’d like to convince him to go back to your original design. That’s up to you. But he approved the new design.”

Her voice was as cold as a nuclear winter, little more than a hiss as she bore down on her commander. “And who talked with him about the side effects of not including sensory enhancers? Did they mention he won’t be able to _feel_ **anything** in eighty percent of his body? Pain is only a part of what those sensors provide, and even if it was the sole purpose they’re still immeasurably necessary. There’s more to this procedure than making him the most effective weapon possible Morrison!”

She slammed her hand down on his desk, startling him into making eye contact with her at last. “How do you know when to pull out of an encounter Jack? When your team is too injured to complete the mission. And what, what if they couldn’t tell they were too hurt to continue? What if they kept pressing because they didn’t know they were past their own threshold, that they were going to _die in vain_.”

The doctor tried to get a handle on her voice. She could sense that she had made her point. But a little vindictive part of her wanted to make sure this lesson stuck. “That _you_ were going to let them die in vain.”

He looked chastened, so she stood up straighter, voice less frigid and accusatory as she continued.

“You’ve been reading my notes since before I was recruited. You’re more than familiar enough with my work to understand that I know what’s best for my patients. At least as far as any of those weapon engineers are concerned.”

She jabbed a finger at one of the altered designs. “These don’t even have the standard circuitry required for mechanical damage indicators. Which is the only way he’d be able to tell he was injured if you signed off on cybernetics without sensory enhancers.”

His eyes went wide, and he scoured the schematic on his desk, face pained when there was no denying the truth of her words.

“That... that is unacceptable.”

Angela blew a piece of hair out from in front of her eyes. Her work up-do had been through hell today as she had stormed around the offices, trying not to snap at innocent bystanders. When his worried look didn’t fade, the doctor’s scowl softened and she covered up the offending schematic with one hand, forcing her Strike Commander to look up at her.

“This specialist, he’s one of the Blackwatch boys?” It was phrased as a question, but there was no doubt in her voice or need for correction. Jack looked out the window, clearly troubled. Dr. Ziegler continued, “Reyes means well, but this mission before the man… it has to stop. This isn’t a busted robot that needs repairs. I’ve seen more care put into quality of life necessities in designs for _drones_.”

Jack scowled. “Gabriel can’t control everything his people do. He’s not their babysitter.” Angela raised a lone blonde brow at him, face impassive as she met his defensive silence with her knowing expression.

“You know as well as I do that Gabriel cultivates that belief in his people. And while you can’t stop people from putting the mission before themselves, there has to be a line. That’s not a decision they get to make for other agents.”

Morrison piled the papers and neatly stacked them back in the folder they had been in before. His expression still defensive, though he offered no verbal defense for his long time friend. There was no denying that those who looked to Gabriel were a lot that was willing to make sacrifices, and not entirely in the self-sacrificing way.

“I won’t sign off on these altered designs. You can speak with him about alternatives to your original designs that are approved by yourself.” He was gruff as he handed the folder back to her. “I’ll try to remember not to get out of my depth about medical matters like this again.”

It was the closest thing she was going to hear resembling an apology after she had brought up the sore spot that was Reyes. The pair of men hadn’t spoken to each other directly about things that weren’t work related in some time, but Morrison wouldn’t hear an ill word spoken of the Blackwatch Commander. At least from someone else’s mouth.

Taking the folder in her left hand, she took the other and covered his outstretched hand with hers. “You should speak to him about it. And perhaps… catch up on old times while you’re at it.” Angela hadn’t really expected a response, so she wasn’t surprised when he merely nodded, his eyes going back to the screens and holodecks arranged on his desk.

Not feeling quiet as victorious as she should for earning a win in the name of logic and humane treatment, the doctor exited the Strike Commander’s office. She hadn’t expected to be met at the other side of the door by a sweaty and out-of-breath orderly.

“Dr. Ziegler, please, he’s pitching a fit and is calling for you.”

She had three patients at the moment. Her position as Head of Biotic and Nanotechnology meant most of her time was spent in research, after all. But she really didn’t need clarification. Quickly she began to race down the hallway, white coat floating behind her.  

 

_______________________________________________

 

The past two days had been a whirlwind. Since he’d agreed to the Strike Commander’s deal, his room had been a revolving door of experts and doctors. Showing him schematics and models, holovid examples and everything in between. Dr. Ziegler had been absent for the latter half. Which did not put him at ease. It was frustrating to have so many things thrown in his face. He felt like there were things that he was missing, things that he’d failed to pick up on in the frenzied decision making.

Regret and apprehension built in the pit of his stomach after the frenzy had finally died down. It was in the facade of stillness that he snapped. A single one of the experts from the previous day had come back, bringing with him a few more variations on things that he been forced to decide upon the day before. Things that he was already regretting accepting. He didn’t understand this technology, and no one would **_explain it_**.

He thrashed, bearing through the pain it caused him, gritting his teeth and yelling at the man to leave this instant. The researcher fled like a dog with his tail between his legs, and a few new faces filled the door frame. Feeling pressed in from all sides, Genji continued to shout at them to leave him alone unless there was someone who could talk sense and make sense. Not that they would likely understand what he was yelling, keeping to English was hard when he was this incensed.

He wasn’t sure how many people understood his shouting, so he began to call out for the doctor from before. The one who hadn’t swarmed him with questions and forced him to make decisions he couldn’t comprehend the consequences of. She had not made sense all the time, but at least when she had been around things had been _calm_.

It hadn’t taken long into his yelling for the woman to appear, her coat flying behind her like a white banner. She looked frazzled, and he felt guilty for a moment, wondering what thing his childish tantrum had drawn her away from. The moment she stepped in, he quieted, hunching his shoulders in embarrassment.

She breathed hard, though she still looked like she could do the same run several times over with no trouble. Dr. Ziegler straightened her glasses, patting down her hair and fixed her coat while she caught her breath.

“You know, you could have summoned me with your call button.” Her accented Japanese did nothing to hide the humor in her voice. She fixed him with a bemused look that did nothing to help the embarrassed hunch of his shoulders.

Her blue eyes bore into him as his silence lengthened. “How can I help you Genji-san?”

He remained silent.

She waited for only a few moments more before she straightened, stepping closer to his bedside. “I was on my way here, since there are many things we need to discuss, about your cybernetic enhancements and the choices you made based on what you were shown in the past two days.”

He growled, raising dark brown eyes to meet her gaze, defensive. “My choices? An uninformed decision is hardly a choice.”

She took no offense to what he said, drawing up a stool while bringing a folder from under her arm and settling it into her lap. Instead she nodded. “That is very true. Is that a proverb?”

Disarmed and off-balanced, the prone man eyed the doctor with confusion and trepidation.

“You were given incomplete information so the decisions you made while I wasn’t present have to be remade. I found reck--” she cleared her throat, apparently thinking better of her word choice. “-inconsistencies with schematics and designs while reviewing them, and have taken it upon myself to make sure that all of these new designs are up to standard with the other department heads, to avoid such a disgraceful mistake again.” Her speech was soft and even, and even if it felt a bit impersonal due to her accent, it was soothing in it’s own way.

Though he wasn’t sure if she was being completely honest. More than a few of the frenzy of professionals who had swarmed him had seemed in charge of their respective departments. If that were the case, would ‘mistakes’ have been simple mistakes? Or conscious efforts for a specific end result? That thought put him on edge as his hand gripped the blanket beneath it in a tight fist. He’d be no one’s experiment.

When he looked up, he realized she’d been eyeing his reaction. Irritation flared up in him. It felt like he was living in a fishbowl. There would have been a time where he could have hidden his feelings behind a cocked brow and a smirk. Was that time really only a few weeks ago? It felt like he’d been lying in this bed for years.

They sat in silence for a brief minute. One waiting for questions while the other waited for answers. After this moment too had passed, Angela shuffled the papers in front of her, drawing something out from the folder that looked out of place among the pristine white on blue schematics. It was a small bundle of light brown sketchbook paper, with jagged ripped tops, a small coffee stain visible from the back. Against the white of the sheets, the walls, and floors, it was the most colorful thing Genji had seen since he’d come to.

“I’ve been working on this… with the help of a conceptual artist since I saw you two days ago. It’s crucial that prosthesis reflect the wearer. Lots of research has extolled the benefits of that mindset over the years. I hope that this is a step in that direction.”

It took Genji a moment to place the tone of her accented speech as something akin to nervousness. He looked from the papers to her face, squinting as he tried to examine her expression closer. She laid the papers out in front of him, diverting his attention, a bit hastily.

His eyes widened behind the corrective lenses. It looked-- it looked like an amazing suit of lightweight tactical armor. The fingers on his left hand traced the edges of the designs. It was white, with what looked like a skin-tight grey-brown reinforced suit underneath. It was reminiscent of something... something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. That is, until he slid the top sheet to the side and was greeted with a close up on the helmet. It looked like the sweet feeling of nights spent pouring money into arcade machines.

“How did you know?”

The doctor was looking everywhere but him. “There is an arcade, in Hanamura that has holovids albums of past tournaments. I normally have my concept artist draft up four or five different designs in an attempt to provide a jumping off point… But considering the number of tournaments that you were documented as placing in with that character I thought that would be unnecessary this time. Also, since it would make the turn around faster-- I’m realizing now that I got ahead of myself. I can have her do more designs if these are not acceptable.”

She was babbling, he realized. Was she… flustered? He couldn’t help but grin at the thought. “Stalking the social media of my old haunts Doctor?” As he suspected, the babbling stopped, replaced by the sound of her clearing her throat that was louder than any bumbled denial she could have offered.

“Ah-- I see, yes, I mean, that decision was short sighted of me. I will have had her draw up more variations.” She reached for the papers in his lap, but he laid his left hand over them before her.

“I didn’t say I disliked the design Doctor Ziegler.” He was startled by his own tone. He was flirting with her. It felt almost _normal_. Like if he closed his eyes, he wasn’t stuck in a bed with his life spiraling out of control.

She didn’t make eye contact with him as she removed her hand from the sketchbook sheets. “Oh, very good then. Of course we can still make any changes to the aesthetics of it that you’d like. But first I think it’s important to go over the actual technology involved in this particular rendition of the design.”

The doctor was no longer rambling, apparently over being embarrassed. Something about that bothered the bedridden Shimada, though he kept his focus on the matter of understanding her explanations for the technology she recommended for him. It was hard to envision what she meant by ‘armor muscle’ though. And the further into her explanation, the bigger the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach grew.

Skin grafting had a high failure rate whenever hard light technology injuries were concerned. Construction firms and companies were the biggest source of information regarding medical treatment for people who were injured by that technology. Their architects and other workers usually, almost wholesale, opted for cybernetic muscle replacements. With only a few... notable exceptions. In the end it was better to save the time and energy, since the skin grafting trials were long and drawn out without anything to show for their efforts. Technology for synthetic flesh was a stunted and heavily regulated field after all.

While the design was still beautiful. Genji couldn’t look at the ‘skin suit’ mesh the same way anymore. He hadn’t gone under a knife yet... but looking at it made him feel like he was already disconnected from his body. He would look like a machine when this was said and done.  

Something must have shown of his internal struggle. Though he’d be hard pressed to tell you if it had been his face, his eyes, his posture or something else entirely. Regardless, somehow Dr. Zielger knew. She reached forward to flip onward, to the next variation of the same design. It was less precise than the previous pages. There were a ten or so drawings on the sheet, rather than a professional three point turn around. It showed poses that were natural, what the ‘armor muscle’ would look like outside of combat, what it would look like with layers of clothes, it detailed features that would only be useful in everyday civilian settings.

Despite those illustrated reassurances, he was still subdued when he offered the doctor a farewell sometime later. He’d given his blessing to make preparations for this design to go forward. It was a sad truth that he’d become accustomed to feeling broken since he’d woken up in this room. But now, despite finally taking steps forward after weeks of being in a coma, it felt like he was standing still. Or worse, falling backwards.

The man tucked his left arm around his torso, squeezing himself tightly.

It stung, but it kept him grounded.

He was still human.

For now.


End file.
